Chapter One.
Truth Gets You Dead (1922)

     They say death brings life. An overused sentiment meant to give widows a false sense of comfort. With death comes life— people must suffer and be buried in the ground before a new soul descends from the heavens and takes their place. It's a fair trade, according to God— the death of an old and withered sinner for the life of a pure, innocent saint.

     Patrick Lynch was no sinner, though he was no saint either. He was a family man, a working man, a lawful man— he abided by the rules and stayed true to his word. He never lied, he never stole or cheated. Patrick Lynch was the upstanding citizen London needed, but he died. He was murdered in cold blood, a terrible punishment for a perfectly decent man. The fact is: God doesn't care if men are good or bad, he kills them all the same.

     With Patrick Lynch's death, came Lucy Foster's life.

     She was born kicking and screaming, a wolf with gnashing teeth. Patrick died the same way, fighting for air with the cold barrel of a gun in his throat. Perhaps, Lucy's mother thinks, that this is why her daughter is the way she is; that a part of Patrick's soul lives within her, still tormented and haunted by the loss of his life. Perhaps Lucy is the very reincarnation of him; they have the same eyes, after all— as blue as the depths of the ocean and piercing, magnetic.

     Lucy Foster only takes after her uncle in appearance— she's not lawful, nor does she fear God and being an upstanding citizen is the last thing she cares about. She's a bloodthirsty beast in the shape of a girl, she craves glory and power and all the brilliant things that come along with it. She craves snow, straight out of the bottle just the way she likes it; she craves strong scotch and wine the color of an open wound.

     Luckily, she knows where to find these things— a magical place where pain and pleasure meet in a beautiful, magnificent agreement. She knows it so well it's practically home.

     The streets are bustling during the day, alive with the laughter of children and braying of horses. The air smells of petrol and smoke, the sour scent of alcohol lingering from the night before. Men and women, clad in their fancy black clothing, are walking about, completely absent-minded to the world around them.

     These same men and women, the ones who are so self-absorbed, come alive at night. They shed their perfectly respectable skin and let their inhibitions roam free. They've been restraining themselves for far too long— "For the children," they say, "For my reputation, for business." They leave their children at home, along with their spotless reputation; they drink expensive liquor (because that fantastic business of theirs could afford them it), they fuck whomever they please and snort, smoke and swallow every drug in sight.

     Because they're depraved, lonely creatures and this is the only time they can.

     There is a magical place on this busy street; a building standing taller than the ones beside it, covered in dark green vines and moss. The one with the large red doors and tinted-glass windows in the shape of half-circles. Dark green velvet couches are scattered along the dark wooden floors, paired with bronze tables and chairs beside them. There's a stage at the very end, with bright lights thrust upon it and young women atop it, dancing their costumed hearts out. And when you look up, the ceiling is painted— innocent cherubs with devil horns and wilted flowers with blood dripping from their petals. The theme is jarring to the average believer's eyes, but to the people here, it's normal. It's expected.

     Nine Lives, where people who were neither sinners nor saints came to simply be. Everyone belongs here; there's not a soul out of place.

     Lucy's a regular, for more reasons than one. When she saunters in, heels clicking melodically against the dark floors, cheers erupt from behind the bar— men smile and raise their glasses, toasting to her entrance, to her very existence.

     This is something Lucy is far too used to; the fame, the pure, unadulterated adoration. The fact that everyone, men and women alike, look at her with hunger and so much desire, that they would fall to their knees for her with nothing but a glance. . . it's exhilarating.

     In a world so cold and so restricting, women must find their power quickly and rise to the top. Otherwise, they risk sinking to the very bottom, where they may never rise again. Sex, money, drugs and murder buy you power— mix them in with some wine and Lucy Foster will rise from the pot, grinning from ear to ear.

     She sits on a barstool, shrugging off her fur coat and lighting a cigarette. The barman, her delightful cousin, approaches her with tired, sullen eyes and a scowl at his lips. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago," he says, placing a glass in front of her.

     The red liquid barely has time to sit in her cup before it's down her throat. She smiles in delight, "I had an appointment."

     "Yeah, alright," he says as he cleans a glass, unconvinced. "At least you bothered to show up."

     "Don't be so hard on me, Roy," she frowns. "You know how these men love the sound of their own voices— nearly talked my bloody ear off!"

     Roy snorts and refills her cup, shaking his head, "You need to be more careful of who you talk to."

Lucy's heard this a million times, it's always the same lecture— 'Be careful, Lucy!' 'Don't underestimate them, Lucy!' 'You can't take them on by yourself, Lucy!' No one realises that it's Lucy herself they should be wary of. No one realises the damage a wounded girl could do, but they should. And they should fear her.

Any sane man would.

But rich men lack sanity, almost as much as they lack humility. Lucy takes in Roy's warning with a drag of her cigarette and a smile. "Sounds like a threat," she muses.

There's a table only a couple steps away, and the men sitting around it are shouting— whether it's in joy or in anger, Lucy cannot tell, but she notices her older brother among them, cigarette dangling from his smile. They're all holding a mass of cards, staring at a pile of money at the center of the table. It wasn't too tall, but the night was still young, and the pile would surely grow.

Roy notices Lucy's lingering stare, and leans forward, "I don't know why Jack bothers playing poker when he's so shit at it."

"For the thrill of it," Lucy says, eyeing her brother and his acquaintances. "Besides, he needs the money, doesn't he? He's still trying to impress that pretty girl of his."

"Like he'll impress her with a couple shillings," Roy snorts.

"What do you know about impressing girls?" Lucy teases. "Last time I've seen you speak to one was—"

Someone clears their throat from behind her, and she turns around. A tall man with brown skin and a (seemingly) expensive suit is standing there with a kind smile on his face. He looks at Lucy as if he's studying her; her dress and the way it hugs her legs perfectly, her ruby red lips and the cigarette between them. He then takes a seat at the empty stool beside hers and beams at Roy, "Another round for the fine gentlemen at the table!"

Roy nods, grabbing a bottle of something foreign and expensive and walking over to the table. All the while, the man waits beside Lucy. He doesn't have the same hungry look in his eyes as most men do— instead, he looks innocent, gentle, even. His back is straight and he keeps his hands to himself, but he doesn't seem smart enough to be so cautious of the girl next to him.

Roy returns, and the man finally speaks, "Ah, Roy! Were you ever planning on introducing me to this divine creature?"

"Daniel Carmichael," Roy holds a bored hand out in front of the man, "Lucy Foster."

She knows of the Carmichaels— one of the richest bloody families in London (hell, maybe in all of England). She knows Daniel is the youngest son, and that he's often travelling all over Europe because he prefers to seek pleasure rather than partake in his family's business. She's heard, on multiple accounts, that although he looks like a man, he is nothing but a foolish boy, who drinks too much and gambles all his money away.

Lucy finds him charming, though, and she's intrigued. As her brain commends her brother for choosing only the most handsome of friends, she extends her hand towards Daniel, and he shakes it. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he says.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she teases.

He leans in, respectfully, "May I buy you a drink?"

"With money like yours, I'd imagine you could buy the whole club if you wanted to."

"So, you've heard of me," he grins.

"Perhaps," Lucy says vaguely. "I've heard things, but I'm not sure how much of it's true."

"I'll tell you over a drink, then," he says playfully, and Lucy laughs. "Is that a yes?"

Smiling, Lucy nods at the nearly-empty glass in front of her, "I've already got a drink."

"What's the harm in having two?" Daniel teases. He calls Roy over to him with a wave of his hand, watching as the glass is refilled with dark liquid.

He's a talkative man, Lucy soon finds out. He's chatty and witty and laughs at his own jokes. He's so boisterous that it feels more like watching a film than having a conversation. She understands this, the need to over-dramatize things, to speak as if you are performing to an audience, but now she feels intimidated. What was once special about Lucy Foster has been proven to be an incredibly common thing, and now she finds herself competing with him.

She knows he doesn't see it that way because he's so naturally charming. He doesn't see it that way because, unlike her, he doesn't have a violent bone in his body. He isn't burdened by pent-up rage, there's no pressure for him to be anything.

At the end of the day, he is a wealthy, powerful, handsome man— he'll get away with it all.

They talk and talk and talk. They take turns listening; Daniel tells Lucy about his travels and she tells him pretty lies that'll make him fall at her feet. Their glasses go empty and full multiple times within the hour, but neither of them notice how much they've drunk, until Daniel starts hiccuping and giggling like a schoolgirl. His cheeks are flushed, and Lucy's got him right where she wants him.

And then the doors fly open. A short, thin man runs in, dried blood beneath his nose and all over his chin. He looks around the club, panicked, until he sees Daniel.

     Breathlessly, he tells him, "Sir. . . there's been a fight. . . there's been a fight at Sabini's. . . just down the street from here. . . Michaels and Johnson are. . ."

Daniel tries to sober up. He stands up with his shoulders held high, then stumbles over his feet. He tells the man to wait outside, then motions to two others sitting at the table. They threw their cards to the ground, grabbing three shillings each and sneering at the shouts of protest. They make their way out of the club while Daniel drunkenly straightens his jacket, and pulls out a stack of money from his pocket. He slams it on the bartop, giving Roy a smile.

"I'll sort this out," he says to Lucy, "then I'll come find you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Whatever you want," she tells him exactly what he wants to hear. He grins and follows his associates out the door.

Roy is staring at her with disapproval, but he knows better than to lecture her again. You need to be more careful of who you talk to. She hears his voice ring in the back of her mind, loud and clear. Daniel Carmichael is no threat, not to her, not to her family and certainly not to their business.

But Roy would encourage her to not underestimate him— after all, powerful men make for incredibly advantageous allies, but terrifying enemies. It's Lucy's job to make connections with such men, to keep them from associating with people who have their own grievances with her family. But it's no longer just a job, it's her entire life.

     My life is not my own, she remembers saying before. It will never belong to me.

Truth is something difficult to accept for liars like Lucy Foster. It's true that she will never be independent, never truly make her own decisions. She'll always be watched, one way or another, but it doesn't mean she'll live cautiously.

     She takes another swig from her glass, and decides that the truth is for fools and idiots. Truth is for God-fearing, lawful citizens like Patrick Lynch.

Truth is what gets you shot in the head, and Lucy Foster simply can't do her job right without one.